


In The Shadows There Is A Light

by Zilchtastic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4866746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilchtastic/pseuds/Zilchtastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole watches the Inquisitor, watches her heart break a little, moment by moment as she pines for a home where she was never at home. <i>They needed me. They didn't want me. I was with so many, but I was alone. Always alone.</i> There's a hurt there so deep he's afraid to touch it, a pearl of pain that glimmers in the Inquisitor's hesitant smiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Shadows There Is A Light

**Author's Note:**

> My first time trying to write from Cole's POV. I hope I managed to get the flow of it right.

She is at home in the forest and not at home at all, slipping through the trees like a pale shadow, clothed in deepest green and ready to fight, to hurt, to kill.

No. To help. To heal. To save.

Cole watches the Inquisitor, watches her heart break a little, moment by moment as she pines for a home where she was never at home. _They needed me. They didn't want me. I was with so many, but I was alone. Always alone._ There's a hurt there so deep he's afraid to touch it, a pearl of pain that glimmers in the Inquisitor's hesitant smiles.

She picks herbs, skins animals, thinks _someone may need armor_ or _we're low on elfroot again and Bull always charges in so recklessly_ or _they need this back at camp_. She's gathering, hunting, collecting, trying so hard to help in any way, in every way, with her hands and her heart and her slick, sharp knives.

The Emerald Graves-- the graves of her people, old wounds pressing against the world, throbbing, aching. So many died here. She doesn't feel angry though; just tired, resigned. Sad, sick, sorrowful. Her people, shattered. So much lost.

No time for the past. Only the present matters. There are enemies to fight, people to save. Old wounds are banished from thought. Young hands take hold of daggers and fight. Blood, hot, heavy, horrendous, corrupted and burning like fire on the skin. They wash up in a shallow river, and Cole watches the Red Templar blood swirl away in dark, heavy clouds. He hopes it won't hurt the fish.

Solas aches here, an ancient hurt, a wound that has never healed, and Cole shies away from him, hangs back where the thoughts are less loud. The Iron Bull is a good shield; he feels no tie to this place, only swears sullenly while tripping over roots and rocks. His thoughts don't batter at Cole's mind like moths at the window, trying to get in. He stays close, stays safe.

The Inquisitor stays close too, although Cole is sure she doesn't know it. She loves the Iron Bull; it shines from her face like the Anchor shines from her hand, coloring all of them with its light. But she can't see it, and the Iron Bull can't see it, and Cole wonders when both of them will finally open their eyes long enough. Will the light shine in? Or will they turn their faces away while they dance?

Held, helpless, ropes digging at her wrists. Bound but safe. A word just behind her lips; no, don't say it, no need to say it, not yet. The Iron Bull, huge, heavy, hard, dangerous above her, but his ropes don't hurt; they hold her together. They hold her to herself. They bind her to him. He doesn't realize yet that they bind him to her, as well. He'll know, though. The Iron Bull will know. He feels too deeply not to see it soon.

Back at camp, they retreat to a tent together. Cole doesn't need sleep; in the night she makes quiet noises, gasps, moans. Muffled whispers, quiet pleas. She doesn't cry out, but she wants to. _Don't wake the camp. Don't make a sound._ She'll be punished if she makes a sound, but that thrills something deep in the pit of her stomach, and the sounds leak out anyway, so soft.

The Iron Bull punishes her, gently, hurting but loving, tender and sharp. She presses against his hand, needing, wanting, ashamed and glad. She knows only him, and it drowns out the cries of her ancestors, pushes away the needy hands that clutch at her from all directions. She knows only the moment, only the pain, and it wipes away everything else and leaves her washed clean, empty, peaceful. She is grateful for it, and Cole is glad.

The next day she hums as she gathers elfroot, whispers wisps of old half-remembered songs in words she only barely understands. Solas smiles to hear them. So does the Iron Bull. Cole smiles, too, hiding it under his hat. Perhaps her pain is already leaving, he thinks. Perhaps the pain the Iron Bull gives is a different sort of pain, a pain that is good, a lance that bleeds but heals. Cole isn't needed here, not now, not when they have each other.

They hurt, but they heal. Together, tied, tight and true. Each knot a promise. Each stroke a mercy. Each kiss a plea. _Know me. Help me. I am yours. You are mine. We are ours. Nothing but us. Nothing but this. Safe. Sleep, cradled in strong arms. Sleep, cradling her delicate form._ They are each others' medicine, bittersweet and strange, but it helps. It helps. Cole is glad.

The forest is green-gold and alive, calling to her. She slips through it like a pale shadow, easy now, senses vast and breathing. She is at home. Anywhere they might go is home now, as long as the Iron Bull is there. 

He has become her shelter. She has become his light.


End file.
